


there’s no smoke without reason (it’s a sign there’s something wrong)

by tonberrys



Series: renascentia: between the lines [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bellatrix is a Terrible Cousin, Coercion, Dark Mark, Emotional Manipulation, Fantastic Racism, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Magical Artifacts, Marauders' Era, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Regulus Black, POV Third Person, Pureblood Society, Underage Murder, Violence Using Fire, Welcome to the Baby Death Eater Murder Club, self-delusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 16:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13708641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberrys/pseuds/tonberrys
Summary: Responsibility to family, restoration of family - the wounds of Sirius's departure fester in his wake, and Regulus takes a dark plunge into the Death Eaters to settle the storm.





	there’s no smoke without reason (it’s a sign there’s something wrong)

**[ december 1976 ]**

For an hour, Regulus had watched the flecking flurries fall from a cloud-smeared sky, subtle against the streetlights as they disappeared wetly against the ground, leaving no mark of the night’s gentle snow. An evening fire was roaring at the drawing room mantle, filling the space with the sound of crackles and the smell of burning wood, as soothing as it was familiar. The brush of winter’s chill had crept through the window some time ago, but Regulus had yet to motivate himself to cast a warming charm (nor to move across the room), fixed as he was on the stillness.

A dark shape flickered on the surface. He saw her reflection in the window before he heard her voice, face obscured by the glare, but he said nothing - counted the seconds until she broke the silence. (One, two, three, four-)

“You haven’t said a word all night,” Bellatrix remarked, arms crossing over her chest - or at least it looked that way in the window. “If you’re hoping that silence will eliminate the tension of this Christmas, I’m afraid it isn’t spreading. Uncle Alphard carelessly referenced a great-uncle, and your mother nearly lost her mind.”

There was no need to specify which great-uncle his cousin was referring to. Stretched across the wall behind him, there was an ancient tapestry following the lineage of an ancient house - and at the bottom, a scorch mark darker than the December sky. Taboo, a curse of sorts, no matter how many of the same name had come before. Uncle Alphard had probably said it on purpose.

“Regulus, look at me.” Bellatrix’s voice was firm this time. He wanted to ignore her, wanted to keep watching the snow disappear on the ground, but without hesitation, he turned his head to face her. Slate-grey eyes pierced his own as she spoke again, “You are too old to mope about. You have a responsibility to this family, and while you are wallowing in your fit of angst, you are - at the same time - just reminding everyone that there is something to be annoyed about.”

Privately, Regulus thought that there was not a person in the entirety of their family who required any such reminders, but he said nothing of the sort. Even as the thought floated through his mind, he felt a wave of guilt crash in its wake, for even if those thoughts were on the minds of every person milling about Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, that did not make Bella’s words any less true.

“I apologise for my selfish distraction,” he responded quietly, watching the hard line of his cousin’s expression, “I just...want this to be over.”

“What specifically?” she probed keenly.

“This...tension. It feels wrong,” he answered uncomfortably, and for a moment, he thought she was going to berate him for the expression, but instead her expression grew keener still.

He fought a flinch when her hand rested on his shoulder, imagining some world in which such a gesture could be a form of permission to return to his previous non-activity, but he knew it was the furthest thing from it. 

“This tension _is_ wrong,” she went on to say, her words crackling with conviction. “But it is action - not inaction - that will drag this family back out of the mire, mending the punctures left by those who would pierce and poison the very people who share their blood. Pouting over traitors does nothing for this family.” 

“I'm not pouting…” he started to object, though even as the words passed his lips, they fell flat against his cousin’s unmoving expression.

Bella’s hooded eyes were sharp - and her words, infused with a sort of grandiosity - as she added, “It does nothing for the wizarding world, either.”

“Bella, I told you to leave him alone,” came a crisper, bell-like voice from the doorway, and whatever point Bellatrix had been spooling up to make was cut short. In truth, her point needed no explicit statement to weigh heavy on his mind. 

_(It is action - not inaction-)_

“Someone needed to talk to him, sitting alone in here like this. Would you have preferred it be Aunt Walburga?” Bellatrix said in response to the new arrival, as if Regulus was not still within arm’s reach.

“He's not doing anything wrong.” Narcissa turned her gaze to him directly, then, voice taking on a fonder lilt. “Come along, Regulus, the elf made cocoa.”

“Cissy, he's fifteen. He's not a child. There is no need to coddle him.”

“It's not coddling, it's cocoa.”

Flicking his eyes between the two sisters, Regulus stood from the soft, overstuffed cushions of his chair, wishing that he could tell them he didn’t much want grandiose action _or_ cocoa, but that was not what either of them wanted to hear, and when Narcissa turned a reassuring smile in his direction, he thought that her company was - at the least - not so terrible a distraction. He feared she would ask him about school (a subject so ripe with connections to _him_ ), but Cissa had always been tactful in nature, so perhaps she would spare him the rawness of those too recent thoughts.

Without a sound, Bellatrix commanded another moment of his attention, shifting subtly to meet his eyes unblinkingly. 

_(It is action - not inaction - that will drag this family back out of the mire-)_

Turning back to Narcissa, who was already sweeping out into the hallway in her ice-blue dress like some human manifestation of the night’s flurries, he thought of her affections - of Bellatrix’s strict guidance - of his parents’ recoiling coldness at the rejection slapped so carelessly in their faces. He thought of his aunts and uncles, his grandparents and their own siblings, each one making an effort - to varying degrees - in the grand scheme of the family structure. Family wasn’t about getting to do what you wanted when you wanted; Regulus knew that. Even Uncle Alphard reeled in when it mattered, even Great Aunt Cassiopeia did.

_(Pouting over traitors does nothing for this family. It does nothing for the wizarding world, either.)_

Twisting back around, he saw Bellatrix fixed with her unrelenting stare - unsettling, but he felt embers crackling at his feet, spurring them to movement. Thoughtfully, his expression flickered, the tiniest movements around his eyes before he turned out once again, falling in step behind Narcissa.

For all their imperfections, they were his family - and that, if nothing else, was worth fighting to preserve.

* * *

**[ summer 1977 ]**

The words had started soft, a quiet conspiracy floating between friends like puffing smoke, telling but intangible.

 _’Do you think they would take us too?’_ Barty had asked that morning, scarcely above a whisper as they watched their friends piling onto the Hogwarts Express, all smiles and swagger as Mulciber thwapped Avery with a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. Barty’s gaze had been fixed on the older boys, but Regulus knew it was not a question of _their_ acceptance.

Watching his friend’s eyes, azure and exacting, Regulus had said nothing, yet when Barty looked back at him, Regulus had felt the pull of a lopsided, smirky sort of smile forming on his lips before he really even knew why - giddy and uncertain and reeling with unspoken possibility. There was a certain drive for meaning, a certain hunger for belonging, a certain thirst for revenge reflecting back in Barty’s face in that moment, like some chaotic mirror of hopes and frustrations, and when at last Regulus had granted a nod, Barty’s grin grew splitting-wide.

In truth, Regulus could not truly say if their zealousness would be met with acceptance, but Bella’s words clanged in the back of his mind with a harrowing echo: _’It is action - not inaction - that will drag this family back out of the mire-’_

One train-ride later, the air was still crackling around them like a promise, whispering of something grand and striking. Barty had pulled out a copy of the _Prophet_ as they sat in their compartment, and on the front page, the smoky stare of the Dark Mark had peered back at them, the gaunt line of a skull with its writhing serpent tongue. Barty was still clutching that newspaper in his hand now as they stepped out onto the platform.

“He never comes,” Barty commented, eyes raking the crowd of parents pouring forth to collect their children. Regulus recalled his friend saying much the same thing some three years prior, lamenting his absentee father, but there was no lament in the tone now.

A few cars down, Regulus heard his brother’s voice before he saw him, whooping just a little too loudly with an arm slung around Potter as they tried to fit out the door at the same time.

With ice flooding his veins, Regulus looked forward again, expression hardening to stone. Next to him, Barty shifted in, bumping gently against his shoulder.

“Let’s make this summer count,” Barty said.

Again, Regulus nodded - this time, with finality.

* * *

Summer heralded the pureblood community’s seasonal migration to the Welsh coast of Porth Iago, and it was with expert skill that the entirety of those in attendance had so thoroughly forgotten his brother in the span of a year. Regulus received all of the attention that he supposed their social peers had wanted to give to Sirius in recent years, had Sirius been less of a Gryffindor-saturated disappointment - vapid smiles, and others, sincere, each categorised in turn. For all the delight found in their validation, there was yet more pressure weighing heavy on his shoulders. Every peering glance was locked on his every calculated movement, drumming steadily each time they ventured from one event to another - but even in the thick of those attentions, at the back of his mind, Barty’s question still lingered. (‘Do you think think they would take us, too?’)

For the past hour, Regulus had been eying his eldest cousin as she lingered at the edges, mostly wrapped in the company of the Lestranges and looking impolitely put upon any time Aunt Druella flittered by to check in. For years, he had known, on some level, that Bellatrix was involved with the Death Eater movement rallying around the Dark Lord. She came to life when she spoke of the glorious path ahead of the wizarding world, sharp in a duel with a wide breadth of knowledge. Over the Christmas holidays, her words had sparked the smallest flame, and for the duration of that holiday, she had probed his opinions more aggressively than normal - and like a proper heir, he’d had the answers lined up to meet every strike, rolling off his tongue one after another like a rapid recitation.

The past year had been a haze of (sometimes petty, if he was honest) point deductions struck in all-out war against Gryffindor House, but beyond the walls of the school, there was a very real war raging - a war that thumped cracks into the faultlines of his family, cast shadows and smearing stains with each misstep they took. (Andromeda with her muggle husband- Sirius, throwing family away like rubbish to frolic irresponsibly with Potter and the rest of his nasty friends-)

There was no room to falter (no room to breathe). Responsibility curled around him like some constricting serpent, squeezing tighter with each breath. People like his mother, people like Bellatrix - they were the sort of people who could just become the serpent, could sink fangs into their problems and rip them to shreds. Regulus had never been particularly good at ripping his problems to shreds, but with every passing day, he had less and less choice.

Bellatrix looked at him like one might look at a moderately interesting tome, when at last Regulus steeled himself to approach her. Rodolphus was speaking to his father a few paces away, and Rabastan had settled into a conversation with Astrid Parkinson (she had been maneuvering to gain his affections for years, though Regulus could not quite tell if the devotion was reciprocated). He nearly turned around again, feeling suddenly like a child out of his depth, but the iron in his cousin’s eyes was the iron he would need - the conviction, the betterment of the wizarding world, the destruction of that which would tear down the traditions of their culture…

“Bella,” he began, a commitment to the conversation, if nothing else, though her expression did not change. “Might I have a word?”

“Of course. You might even be granted several, depending on the topic,” she said with a splash of boredom in her tone, “What’s on your mind?”

Regulus shook his head. “Not here. Would you mind stepping outside?”

At that, interest sparked in her storm-grey eyes, not so unlike his own. “Lead the way.”

The sun had set some time before, but the air outside the manor was hot and sticky, clinging to their robes as they stepped out into the patio. When he and his cousin had finishing casting a brief series of cooling charms to offset the summer’s oppression and a sound-cancelling charm to protect against those who might nosily linger to listen, Regulus stood in taut silence. The weight of his question pressed heavier against the walls of his mind, and though he could see the patience starting to drain from Bella's face, he still required one more steadying breath before speaking again.

“When did you join the Death Eaters?” he asked, fingers twisting in the hems of his sleeves as he tried to sound casual, but the bright, unmasked delight spreading across his cousin’s face was almost enough to calm the roiling nerves in his stomach.

Not quite, but almost.

“I was nineteen,” she answered with a certain gravitas, “The Dark Lord was just initiating his rise to power, and I have been at his side since that day, as every day to come. It is a calling greater than any other - a singular privilege, Regulus.” 

Certainty burned in her eyes, and Regulus could feel his own resolve bolstering in his mind, coating the thoughts with bracing security. Regulus would make the addendum that family remained a greater calling, but it was a moot point when it was serving the Dark Lord that seemed the quickest way to protect and benefit his family - the most potent way to finally mend and heal.

“You… You said I should take action,” he started, a little uncomfortably, hating the way his voice had hesitated. The cloth of his sleeve was now pulling taut at the shoulders from his thumbing fiddle at the hem, but her sharp attention stilled his hands. “And I should. My responsibility to our family calls for strength and initiative. I thought perhaps - I should join the Death Eaters too.”

“You sound unnerved by your own voice,” she said bluntly, her gaze now locking sharply on his own. “Ask again.”

Regulus felt his stomach lurch, slightly, at the accusation of sorts, but he forced himself to speak again, more steadily, steeling his tone: “I wish to join the Death Eaters. To herald in our new world.”

Bella's lips curled into a smile then, and for what that smile lacked in kindness, it made up for it in satisfaction.

“You're a bit soft around the edges,” she commented appraisingly, “but one cannot doubt your devotion and your rightness of priorities. With guidance…” She rested a clasping hand on his shoulder, and this time, he was prepared enough to avoid the flinch entirely. “This is exactly what you need, yes.”

Regulus ventured a tentative smile then - and when the acceptance etched into his cousin’s face only deepened in the subtle grooves, he felt confidence welling up, washing out the uncertainty like some flooding purge. In that moment, he almost wasn’t sure why he had been so nervous, but when they had torn down their charms and started back, he felt sure if one thing:

He could prove to his family that he was different - that he wasn't a soft child-

-that he was exactly the heir they needed.

* * *

**[ december 1977 ]**

Joining the Death Eaters had involved less grandeur than Regulus had expected, given the high brow nature of their Cause. They were ushering the wizarding world into a future where they could be free to carry on without the constant onslaught of muggle culture...could root themselves in their traditions without political upset...could be free, again, from the tensions of war. The methods in the _Prophet_ could be a bit violent for his tastes, but there was so much more to a movement than the efforts of the front page news.

The mask Bellatrix had gifted him was pale and nondescript and - months later - entirely underutilised in his current state. The lessons she provided to Barty and himself required no secrecy from each other - only the masking of their Trace, hidden as they had been in the all-magical segment of Porth Iago for the majority of the summer. Those lessons were the most stressful thing about it all, but he knew Bella just wanted to make him stronger - make him better - prepare him for the skirmishes in his future so he would not get killed or arrested the second he stepped on a battlefield. Though he had never been particularly fond of martial magic, the defense of their way of life was inevitable, if the war did not end within the next year, and from what anyone could see, it was still going strong.

Tonight, their task was not training, but rather monitoring and reporting back on the compliance of the (new) owner of an (old) lounge who had been warned about the consequences of welcoming muggleborns into a wizarding space. Attendance had shedded away to the muck and mire, a point of confirmation that its previous attendees were apparently too busy to follow up on themselves, but that was perhaps the way of this yet unfamiliar hierarchy. Such an outing was not necessarily the important work Regulus had in mind, but in truth, he was not adverse in the least to the prospect of observation. Spot checks could not be perfectly effective, but the whispers of continued infractions were reason enough to investigate, and he did like investigating, even if it felt a little bit like a throwaway errand.

The lounge was not intended to be an adolescent gathering space, but as it turned out, they were as diligent in checking ages as they were in calling for even a verbal reference to blood status. With ease, he had slipped inside with Evan and Wilkes, dressed in wholly unremarkable robes and donning varying degrees of feigned interest as they navigated toward a booth adjacent to particularly unremarkable-looking people. As much as Regulus preferred to suggest otherwise, he hadn’t a clue how to tell an unfamiliar muggleborn from an unfamiliar half-blood until they opened their mouths - none of the boys did, for all their posturing on the matter - but with silent glances, their conclusions fell in line.

The establishment itself was a little easier to read, peppered with the vestiges of something that had once been quite sophisticated and now told of its lowered expectations, as much in decoration as in upkeep. (‘Not unlike the wizarding world itself, beyond the bounds of proper society,’ his mother would say.) 

Evan was sitting closest to the other group, his back to them, Regulus situated furthest away with Wilkes between. To each side of Evan’s blonde mop were two men and two women, their attentions curved away towards the pianist on the stage opposite them, the lights colouring the performer strangely in some this haze. Even the pianist struck a peculiar chord, as base to the eye as it was bass to the ear. Perhaps they were going for a stripped away aesthetic. Flicking his gaze back to the people in the next booth over, he found their conversation to be no more enthralling. 

Wilkes had acquired two alcoholic beverages - one of which was for Evan - and made significant progress on it before the conversation took any turns of interest.

“We’re going to see her parents, this year,” one of the men was saying, brushing his thin brown hair from his eyes before slipping that same arm around the woman next to him.

From the opposite end, the other man snorted. “That should be an interesting Christmas. Do they have any strange traditions?”

“No more strange than yours, no doubt.” The holidaying-daughter in question leaned into the chest of her boyfriend - fiance - husband - Regulus could not say for certain, though he supposed it mattered little.

“Are the fairy lights really just little balls of light?” the other man was saying. He was a bit slighter, with a head of curly black hair and an expression caught somewhere between bafflement and amusement.

The woman rolled her eyes, reaching back to twist her own brown hair up behind her neck. “They achieve their purpose.”

“I bet they are still lovely,” the other woman stated with a decisive nod.

Words were unnecessary as Regulus exchanged looks with Evan and Wilkes in turn, quiet and meaningful and perhaps too prolonged until Wilkes broke the silence again.

“I think I want another one of these,” he said, and Evan rolled his eyes with a smirk turning up at the corner.

“It tastes surprisingly cheap, compared to what I would have expected from my father’s descriptions of his own visits here in the past,” Evan remarked in a low tone, though their targets of interest were far less concerned with the conversation happening on this side of the walled bench.

“I haven’t even tasted it, and I could have told you as much,” Regulus remarked, to which Evan smirked a little bit more and Wilkes released a corresponding huff. With a slightly upturned expression, Regulus added, “Pace yourself and try not to embarrass us.”

“Perhaps it might actually help,” Evan said with an air of mild amusement, tipping his head toward another table where the laughter was a little too animated to be completely sober. “A bit of loosening is...natural.”

“Not when it loosens the tongue,” Regulus responded pointedly, looking between them.

Again, Wilkes sighed. “Why are you killing my joy?”

“No, he’s right,” Evan said, though the smile had yet to fade, “You do get a bit chatty.”

“I’d like to amend my previous question: Why are you killing my joy with logic?” Wilkes said as he leaned back into the cushioned booth, head lolling to the side, though the slant of his mouth wasn’t entirely put upon.

Regulus shook his head, mouth tugging wryly. “When we are satisfied enough with this outing to be on our way, we can reconsider your related rights and privileges.”

A little grin tugged at the corner of Wilkes’s mouth. “I think we’ve experienced enough,” he said with a brief, sideways glance. “Let’s take it to your place, Evan.”

“I don’t remember volunteering that,” Evan said with a snort, slipping out of the booth.

“You were just going on about your fine tastes,” Wilkes pointed out.

“Lush.” Evan shook his head with lingering amusement, and Wilkes was wearing a(n at least half-)joking grin as he slid out in turn. Regulus was slipping out from the other side of the table when Evan addressed him more specifically: “Reg, you come along, too. We’ll debrief.”

Even if Wilkes had more control than their teasings were giving him credit for, Regulus had been intending a treasured evening to himself, when their responsibilities for the night had passed - but the expectant look on Evan’s face was enough to give that intention pause. Though the conclusions seemed straightforward enough, it was well within reason to discuss their observations in greater detail, and far better to do so with each other than relaying the information in a poorly organised, discombobulated fashion.

Granting a nod, Regulus watched as Evan smiled and pulled forward to lead them back out of the lounge. 

If Evan’s parents noticed their arrival some time later, they gave no indication of it. The house was quite grand in size and as well as decor, and one could not be truly be surprised when a quiet scurry went unnoticed in such a place. Passing various statues and a line of subtly animated artwork (some of which Evan’s mother had painted herself), they took each step quietly, more out of habit than true fear of scolding.

They settled down in the basement, in the end, undoubtedly due to the proximity to the Rosiers’ impressive wine collection. A shallow glass was poured for all three as they settled on the stools, though Regulus had not asked. He could not decide if the smell or the prospect of lowered inhibitions was more aversive - or rather, it was undoubtedly the latter, but the interaction was no small thing. Though he could have made a jest of it and poured his into Wilkes’s glass, he found himself absently swishing it, watching the deep red swirl as Evan started to speak again.

“So, I think it’s safe to assume that woman was a mudblood,” he stated casually, then took a sip from his glass. “Clearly whoever is in charge doesn’t realise the gravity of the situation our society has found itself in.”

The words had been vague, but Regulus could not pretend he had concluded any differently, so he lifted his gaze with a nod.

“I knew we could do it,” Wilkes said with a sense of satisfaction.

“Not that there was anything remotely challenging to overcome,” Regulus pointed out in turn.

“The grunt work won’t last,” Evan said meaningfully from over the top of his glass. “My father has been angling to get me more interesting tasks, maybe even as soon as next month.” There was an air of excitement and conviction in his tone, and he met Regulus’s eyes directly when he added, “I’m sure Bellatrix is doing the same for you. I know she would for me too, if not for Father - but especially with her being your only link.”

“I wish I had a special link angling for more interesting missions,” Wilkes said, pouring a bit more wine into the glass.

“We’re all in this together,” Evan said emphatically, to which Wilkes returned a smile and an emphatic drink of his own. Once again, Evan looked back to Regulus. “All the same, I imagine Bella already has plans forming for next summer. We are a continuing legacy in service of the Dark Lord - with friends who will undoubtedly begin legacies of their own,” he added with an acknowledging nod to Wilkes, “and that means something to the Cause. We can have more - prove more - be _chosen_ for more if we reach out and take those opportunities.”

There was a grandness to his friend’s tone - one that sounded a little bit like Bellatrix - and Regulus thought a little bit uncomfortably that perhaps Evan was closer to her preference in a cousin, even if Regulus knew he was the recipient of far more individual attention. (In truth, he still was not sure if that attention was a testament to his improvement in her eyes or a deficit she was seeking to resolve. Perhaps it was both.) 

Evan pulled up his sleeve and looked at the soft side of his forearm intently, as if staring hard at something that wasn’t there. “Someday, it’s going to be us. No more missions like this, for although every task in the Dark Lord’s name is a task worth doing, we are made of something greater, and they will see that.” 

To that, Regulus nodded firmly. Barty often expressed similar sentiments, carefully as they tread, reading each other like books - and as the words echoed within his mind, Evan and Wilkes took a drink from their respective glasses in unison.Clasped firmly in his hand, Regulus's own glass was still alternating between absent swirls and rooted stillness, but he was at least glad to have something for his hand to do. 

Every Death Eater thought of the Dark Mark - or at least, Regulus supposed they must, vaunted and glorified an honour as it was - and a certain buzzing energy sparked in the room, breaking some unspoken seal. Things were changing-

-and as it seemed, things would continue to change.

* * *

**[ summer 1978 ]**

With a pitch-dark hood tugged over his masked face, Regulus had been crouching in the bushes three houses down from his target for nearly 15 minutes - an insignificant blip of time, on any other night, but the pressure of his task was crushing, and every second he delayed was another second of tempting fate to send a hoard of tipped off Aurors his way.

Tonight was the night: Not just any mission, but _the_ mission. It was a privilege to act as an extension of the Dark Lord’s will, an honour to contribute in some small way to a much bigger plan, and tonight, Regulus would extend that judgement to a couple of half-blood traitors who had caught the wrong sort of attention from the Dark Lord: The Boots, Bellatrix had told him before they had flown over, hidden by a disillusionment charm. The names did not strike him as anyone of consequence on either side of the war, and he was not quite certain what exactly they had done, beyond Bella's insistence that they had betrayed wizardkind. When he had asked for further explanation, her expression had pulled to a focus, and with a certain grandiosity had told him that the Dark Lord’s will was reason enough. 

That uncertainty felt uncomfortable, but - perhaps it was easier, not thinking about it... 

Across the street, he saw the inky swath of shadows between two houses and knew his cousin was watching from their arrival position, disillusioned brooms presumably still propped against the wall. He could imagine her impatience all too well, radiating with a relentless buzz in his ears, despite the silence. She had yet to intervene - yet if she did, he knew the already-anxiety-inducing night would collapse into something far worse.

Collecting himself with a steadying breath, Regulus slipped towards the house, heartbeat rising in his chest like rolling thunder. Though his birthday was only weeks away - just weeks from the freedom found in the lifted Trace - the task had fallen in his lap, a multi-pronged assault of several seemingly insignificant targets, one for him and each of his fellow initiate hopefuls. Targets with their little rebellions - little rebellions that were to be made an example of.

Regulus had no preconceived notions about the family assigned to him, but ignorance did surprisingly little to calm the storm raging in his mind, crowded with thoughts that could scarcely help but try to extrapolate on the curiosities of who they were and why their misstep called for more aggression than usual.

Sidling up into the shadows, Regulus acknowledged - with fresh annoyance - how inconvenient it was to try carry out any task when he could not cast the associated spells. Technically speaking, he had not been expressly forbidden, due to the masking effect of magical adults in his vicinity - yet outside of a magic-only village, his name would be no less associated with this address, perhaps even tucked away in some archive somewhere, and the thought of even a chance record was enough to frighten him out of so much as a side-along apparation.

(Bellatrix had commended his thorough consideration - or at least he thought it was probably a commendation. An acknowledgement, at the very least, which was not so small a feat in itself.)

Reaching into his robes, Regulus pulled out the first of the night’s artifacts, all courtesy of his family - and more precisely, a mix from his father and from the Lestranges. This particular object was his father's, shaped like a rust-and-grey handle, and when he thrust it to the side of the Boots’ house, spindly ‘legs’ latched against the brick with a jolt. It was meant to neutralise basic wards and alert of those it failed to neutralise, as far as he’d been told. To see no further reaction from the object was unsettling - and said little in the way of whether there had been anything set - but after several long, stretching seconds that indicated a clarity to enter, Regulus supposed it was safe.

(Perhaps not safe. Unwarded.)

With a subtle twist, Regulus looked back across the street towards Bellatrix - towards the shadowy space where she presumably still stood, watching his progress. Nerves bundled up in his chest, twisted up in his mind, pulled taut at his clenching fingers, and again, he took a steadying breath in, and out. _(These people were to be eliminated- A message must be sent-)_ Pressed his forehead to the brick, in and out.

Regulus could not have said how long he stood there, but when a hand clasping his shoulder nearly ripped him out of his skin, he realised it must have been too long.

“What, exactly, are you doing?” Bellatrix asked, measured and chilly in her demeanor. He hated how unnerving it was to not see her face, though he knew she couldn’t see his either.

“Preparing,” he responded thickly through a fresh knot of nerves, standing taller and straighter in the hopes she wouldn’t notice.

Naturally, she noticed. “You have done your preparations already. Hesitation is a childish, withering luxury you must shed. It’s an embarrassment to you and an embarrassment to me, and the longer you dither, the more danger you put us in.” He winced beneath his mask - but when Bellatrix continued, she spoke in more muted tones, “You are the culmination of our noble House, and I know I do not need to remind you what that means - neither your responsibilities, nor the grandness of the calling before you.” He imagined her eyes narrowing behind the gaunt, harrowing lines of her concealment as her voice sharpened again, “I will not tell you again, and you will not require me to. Drop your artifact at their feet and walk away. A child could accomplish this.”

An accusatory charge, if ever he had heard one. Face flushing hot with embarrassment, frustration, and no small amount of anxiety, Regulus nodded stiffly.

“I will not let you down,” he responded with such conviction that he almost started to believe it. Bellatrix said nothing in return, but the rigidity of her body language spoke all too clearly: _See to it that you don’t._

Leaving the ward neutraliser in place, Regulus then rooted for the second object of the four - a sound-cancelling field, anchored on a bangle that now hung loosely on his wrist. The soft, chittering sounds of the night were swallowed up all at once, an eerie silence replacing noise he had not even noticed until it was gone. Even if Bellatrix had wanted to extend further motivation, he wouldn’t hear her - or anything else within a ten-foot radius. Unnerving, perhaps, to have that silence go both ways, but it was well worth the sound-masking as he set to shaking the window loose (eventually stepping up onto the windowsill and securing himself to kick a hole in the glass - and upon dropping down again, unlatched from the inside). 

Life without spellwork was needlessly inconvenient. He ought to have brought something to cut the glass, but it was too late for that now. (If only this could have waited two more weeks, when the stupid Trace was lifted anyway… _Everyone else_ got to use magic.)

Immediately, he banished the thought, reminding himself that the Dark Lord’s work was not designed to suit his personal schedule (even if, logically-speaking, it really ought to). Behind him, Bellatrix was still watching - he knew that much without looking, humiliating as it was - but there was no time to lose on distractions. With the window raised, Regulus carefully brushed away the remaining glass shards and climbed in, catching movement from the corner of his eye as Bellatrix started to fade back from the scene.

The responsibility was his - a task to carry out alone, for the sake of the Cause.

 _Don’t think too much,_ he was coaching himself as he crossed the living room, cozy despite the stillness of the night with large, soft-looking furniture and a wall of photographs he refused to look at. _Don’t think._

Once he had cleared the spray of glass crunching soundlessly under his shoes, Regulus pulled off the bangle, for a moment, to listen. Again, the subtlest sounds of the night filled the space, but he heard no creak, no shuffle, no indication of alert from inside or outside the house. So frantic was the thundering in his chest that he half-expected his own heartbeat to awaken them, but with slow, measured steps, he approached the door at the end of the hallway. It was a modest house, at least, with only one floor’s layout to concern himself with. Leaning with his back to the doorframe, he pressed his ear to the door, listening for movement but hearing nothing but the faintest chorus of crickets outside. Taking his bottom lip nervously between his teeth and tensing his form, Regulus slipped the bangle on his wrist again, then twisted up his hand in the sleeve like some mockery of a security blanket.

(Three, two, one…)

When Regulus slowly cracked open the door, he was met with a perfect silence, and less perfect stillness. On the bed, there was a shift, and for one staggering moment, his throat tightened with the horrible fear that the targets weren’t, in fact, asleep. Frozen in place, his eyes fixed on the bed with a shoulder braced against the frame. Seconds passed far too slowly, taut and frightening, but as the movement settled again, he could see that their eyes were shut and their breathing was even with the tell of sleep.

Swallowing thickly, Regulus slipped the rest of the way through the door and pulled out a pair of gloves, slipping his hands into each. His skin was over-warm, already, and a little clammy, but when he reached into his other pocket for the third object - or rather, a pair of objects - protection from the effects was of far greater priority than physical comforts. The two stone rings were small and inconspicuous, and hopefully as self-sizing as he was led to believe, though he had no wanted to try it on anyone available to him.

The man’s hand was most accessible - hanging off the closer side of the bed - and though Regulus could not hear any snoring, the poor posture made Regulus wonder if he might be (situationally inappropriate as the observation might be). Steeling himself, he crept across the room, kneeling beside the bed and taking the larger of the two rings, first gently touching the stone surface to the man's skin and then watching as silent breathing turned rigid in an instant. Siding the ring along his finger, Regulus pushed it on, watching the ring clamp down like the jaws of some tiny creature.

Regulus did not look at their faces as he stood and circled around to the other side of the bed, hoping with quiet desperation that the sleeping woman would not stir. She was facing inward, hand by her face; he did not like being unable to monitor her expression, but with one swift, calculated movement, he touched the ring to her hand, then slid it to her finger, just as he had done with her husband.

The shaky breath he let loose would have been far too loud if not for the bangle, and for half a moment he felt a rising panic, a suffocating need to climb out the window and let them take the paralysis (and the invasion of their home) as a warning of what their carelessness could bring upon them… but the task was not yet complete, and however terrible it felt, it needed to be done.

 _‘Drop your artifact at their feet and walk away,’_ Bella had said scornfully, _‘A child could accomplish this.’_ Nothing about this night felt simple or easy, but that was the thinking again, and he needed to stop thinking - he needed to do, and to get out… 

The final artifact felt warm, even through the charmed protections of his gloves - or perhaps his hands were just maintaining their own uncomfortable warmth, though it was hard to say. The container was relatively small, no bigger than his palm, with a latch-sealed lid and intricate flame depictions ornamenting the surface. The container itself was enchanted with flame-resistance, he knew, but even if his gloves supposedly were too, he did not much want to test it with a sprinkle. The ash inside looked quite typical, as far as ashes went, but as he gave the opened container a sharp shake outward over the bed, flames roared upward so aggressively that he stumbled backward, nearly dropping the rest of the container around his feet.

It was eerie, the silence, and for a moment, he stared at the at the fire with something skin to frozen, tight-lipped horror, feeling the heat but hearing nothing of the spreading crackle. Weakly, he told himself that they probably couldn’t feel it - the paralysis had set in when they were sleeping and may well maintain them in some unconscious stasis…

His eyes flicked to the bedside table as he turned, catching by chance a photograph of four: the couple, along with the two little girls - one with dark hair, one with light - neither one looking to be older than eight. Immediately, horror of a very different sort turned in his stomach - knowing well that it was why he ought to have looked at the photos in the living room, and knowing it was, at the same time, not unrelated to his fear of doing that very thing. A sudden, frantic impulse struck him at a blow to the skull, dizzying and urgent. (Children- too young to be even remotely related to whatever it was that the Boots had done-) Temporarily sealing the ash container again, Regulus darted back out into the hallway, checking two different doors before he found the one with two little girls sleeping inside.

Pulling them out of the house himself was out of the question - for all he knew, Bella would ask him to end their lives right then and there to prove a point, even if the task technically only specified the parents - and he might actually be sick if it came to that. He could not fake involuntary apparation with his own Trace on him…

His mind reeled as it flicked from their bedroom windows to some of the larger cabinets and furniture lining the hallway. With luck, they would have the sense to climb out an already open window…

Keeping the bangle on and the bedroom door open, he crossed the room with quick-pattering feet, unlatching it at the bottom and pushing it up. The night was stagnant, offering no relief in a breeze, but the drop from window to grass was short, even for a child. Pulling over a toy trunk to the window (in case the littler one couldn’t reach), he secured it flushly against the wall and stepped back, heart hammering even as he reached the door frame again. Taking a steadying breath, he at last removed the bangle and shoved it in his pocket, met with the telltale crackle coming from down the hall. Picking up a music box from the dresser by the door, he hurtled it at the wall with the a loud crack, jolting the children awake just as he shut the door with an emphatic thud.

Pulling the cabinet and the armoire in succession, he moved them in place, letting the decorations fall carelessly to the floor as he put the tallest inward and the longest as a secured weight on the outside, a quick-fix block of the hallway to keep them from roaming out into the fire. Hopefully, they were not unnaturally strong for small children, and with luck, it would seem as though the intention was to keep them in the fire, should further investigation note the blockage.

Circling back to sprinkle more of the ashes at the far end of the hallway, he coached his mind into some attempt at quiet focus, but with each flicking spread of the ash to a new area of the house, he breathed in the choke of smoke starting to roll and billow, felt the popping heat of the flames, and by the time he was climbing out the window he had entered through, he was coughing a dark, chesty cough. Even as he was yanking the ward neutraliser from the outside wall (hand shaky, grip slipping-), he could see the smoke rising from the far corner of the house.

“Go back to your broom and leave, immediately. The disillusionment charm should still be active,” Bellatrix instructed bruskly, though there was an unnerving lilt of approval in her voice. “At that distance, the Trace should not be a concern, so I will cast the Mark and follow suit. Well done, Regulus.”

He scarcely heard the words, though he nodded an emphatic nod, stumbling into his jolt across the street. There was no benefit in stillness and stealth now - not with the flames starting to creep up around the Boot residence. Reaching his broom at the end of the block, Regulus mounted it and pushed to a lift in one smooth motion, and when he saw his arms shaking with their grip, he hoped hollowly that he didn’t fall off.

Temptation prickled at him to swoop around and see if the girls had climbed out yet, but he did not know if the Trace cared at all for height, nor what Bellatrix’s timing would be. Miserably, he bit away the urge and took to flight. The whip of the wind felt almost cool, after the roar of the fire, and he spared only one glance back to see a smoky green skull hovering in the sky, its serpent-tongue writhing downward.

For a moment, he clamped his eyes shut and barreled forward, focusing only on the air thundering in his ears.

* * *

Darkness cloaked the forest clearing, and though the surrounding mass of masked figures were hushed in reverent silence, that silence - in a sense - felt louder than any sound they could have uttered.

Regulus stood with the others who were receiving the Dark Mark that night - seven in total, each one a friend, though none had yet spoken of the tasks that had earned them the honour of the Dark Lord’s Mark: a show of one’s devotion, of one’s commitment - proof that one was a chosen follower - an eternal reminder of one’s responsibilities.

Standing apart from the crowd of robed figures was the Dark Lord himself, hood thrown back to reveal an alabaster complexion, almost otherworldly in tone, and a head of dark hair. To distinguish much else in the shadows was a hopeless pursuit, and even if those shadows had not been cast about him, Regulus was finding it difficult to manage much more than furtive glances.The mask hid the details of his face, yet when their Lord turned his eyes to the small, separated group of the yet unmarked, he was not entirely certain a mask was a sufficient shield for his thoughts or curiosities. Certainly not if the rumours were true...

“Come forward,” the Dark Lord said in a smooth, low voice that could have almost been mistaken for the sounds of the forest, if not for his unyielding stare.

All seven boys took tentative steps forward, then froze immediately when a hand rose in subtle protest. “One at a time,” the Dark Lord specified.

Before anyone else had the opportunity to volunteer, Barty launched forward, halfway to his destination by the time the rest of them had settled into the words. Or at least, Regulus was pretty certain it was Barty, given their earlier placement and the familiarity of his friend’s gait, though with the mask, it was hard to do much more than assume. Thumbing the hems of his sleeves and strictly resisting the urge to rock restlessly on his heels, Regulus kept his eyes glued to the back of Barty’s hooded head, seeing little more than a series of shifts and what seemed to be arm movements, for all his efforts to garner some clue of what would be expected of them, facing the Dark Lord directly. 

Regulus was not certain how much time had passed when at last his friend had tottered off to stand among the other masked Marks, and when he turned attention to Regulus and the others, Regulus felt a weak smile on his lips, legs steadily jellifying beneath him. Regulus could not tell if he felt like retching due to anticipation or anxiety, but when again the Dark Lord called for one of them to step forward, his legs were moving before the words had even fully passed their Lord’s lips; Regulus barely heard the huff of protest behind him.

Reaching the Dark Lord - standing in His presence - did little to settle the aggressive upset in his stomach, and he found it was even more difficult to determine the etiquette up close than it had been from across the small clearing.

“Remove your mask,” the Dark Lord said quietly. Regulus did so, his movements small and uncertain before his frame stiffened in what he hoped was resolve. “Look up, Regulus Black.”

In that moment, such an instruction from perhaps anyone else - barring his mother - might have been met with some measure of hesitation, but his eyes seemed to lift of their own accord, spellbound by some jarring mixture of intimidation and curiosity. 

The Dark Lord’s eyes were a deep scarlet, he could see now, more akin to blood than fire, yet it was the oppressive heat, the lick of errant embers, the suffocating haze of smoke that filled his mind all at once without warning. Regulus clenched his jaw against the memory, and as the two little girls flickered in his mind, frantic tugs on the furniture to block the room, he wanted nothing more than to look down at the ground again...yet he suspected that looking down prior to any permission to do so may well have a more frightening outcome than merely enduring the stare. 

The Dark Lord broke their gaze first, and Regulus took the permission to lower his eyes with more relief than he would like to admit, trying to maintain a sharpness of focus as the elder wizard continued,“Your cousin places a great deal of faith in you. It seems there may be merit in her faith, young though you are.” Regulus’s thumb traced the edge of his mask as he listened, feeling reassurance swell up from his stomach to his head like a balloon - a warm, comfortable emotion that stymied the worst of his nerves. “Give me your left arm.”

Reminding himself to breathe, Regulus did just that, shaking the oversized sleeve of his robes to bunch at the crook of his elbow and looking down at the line of his inner forearm, a little ashen in the dim light. As a bone-white wand came into view with a flourish, the silence roared in his ears.

All at once, a searing pain split down the middle of his arm, sharp and hot like the burn of boiling blood, and though he saw no visible change at first, had his eyes been closed, he could have been easily convinced the Dark Lord was attempting to slice it in half. His wince was immediate and rapidly smothered, but it took him several seconds longer to arrange his expression into one of stony neutrality.

From beneath the skin, it seemed, something inky and dark billowed up over the surface, spreading and sharpening until the distinct skull and serpent brand had settled fully to its form.

Tension raged to the sound of forest chitters, and the Dark Lord’s wand lowered again.

The dismissal to follow was met as a welcome opportunity to take refuge behind his mask once again, and Regulus felt the flood of discomfort even as he fought to will it away. Of their own accord, his feet led him to where Barty stood among the chosen, and when their eyes met through the shadowy openings of their masks, he thought he saw a smile in the crinkle of the other boy’s eyes. Without thinking, Regulus nodded, and when he turned his eyes back to where the next in line was approaching for his Mark, Regulus felt Barty’s hand seek out the crook of his neck, thumbing subtly at a knot tangling in his shoulder.

Staring unseeingly at the scene before then, the Dark Lord's words clouded around his ears - _‘there may be some merit in her faith’_ \- some mix of shame and exhilaration buzzing warmly in his head. Regulus knew he was something less than what he ought to be, weak in his hesitations and uncertain in the extent of the sacrifices necessary for this Cause, but his cousin’s faith was an anchor in the chaos, a distraction from the crushing feeling in his chest. 

This responsibility was his to bear, but if she believed in him-

-perhaps there was yet a path to take his mind where it needed to go.

* * *

July was met with the hot, humid airs June had left in its wake on the coast of Porth Iago. Regulus was never one for short-sleeved fashion, but for days, he had guarded the concealment of his arm with a diligence bordering on obsession. Though he was no stranger to cooling charms (nor their wintertime counterparts), it was taking every ounce of self-control and self-awareness to keep from drawing attention to it by rubbing and looking at the covering sleeve constantly.

Three nights, precisely, had passed since the night in the clearing, and it shook him how normal the summer felt, otherwise, with his peers frolicking on the beach, games of pick up quidditch, and slews of parties and brunches. He had been shuffled into a tea engagement with Narcissa, this afternoon. She was only just settling in after a particularly pointed scolding of the Malfoy house-elf, and so distracted was he that he that he scarcely heard the remarks over the sound of his own thoughts. From outside, the sunbeams were streaming in brightly, and he had taken to staring at some sort of coastal bird in the bushes when Narcissa finally spoke.

“I don't think I've told you yet, but Lucius acquired the most wonderful thing, the other day,” she began, and when he looked in her direction, he saw that she was flicking her gaze from the bird to himself. “A white-feathered peacock,” she continued, not bothering to wait for a response, “An absolutely breathtaking sight.”

It sounded a bit silly, really - it _was_ a bit silly, and wholly expected of Lucius - but despite the lilting tone, he saw a keenness in her ash-grey eyes, and perhaps a flicker down to his arm, though she said nothing of the Mark, if she knew.

“Only one?” he asked lightly, shifting away from the window to face her.

At that, she smiled - the sort of smile that lit her eyes, despite her demure visage, all grace and composure. “Quite right.” Something in the tiny muscles around her eyes seemed to relax, then, and she neatly placed a napkin in her lap. Their new elf, Dobby, was placing a tray of scones and jam on the table, and Regulus granted him a tiny smile but said nothing as Narcissa continued, “He's in the process of acquiring a companion, though it is unlikely to happen before the autumn.”

“I’m glad to hear the peacock won’t be lonely for long,” he said, taking a scone from the tray. “Do make certain Lucius is checking the birds for glamour charms. I would not put it past some con artist to sell you regular peacocks at exorbitant prices.”

“Nor would I,” she said, crinkling her nose with a slightly sour expression. “Lucius is surely vetting his sources, but I will remind him.” Once again, her face loosened to a smile, taking a scone for her own plate. “Our elf is still quite green, but hopefully the scones will be decent. It has been a while since we’ve had tea, hasn’t it? We still had Pippy. I know you always come home for the holidays, but it feels so long between, and you’ve grown up so much - nearly seventeen already. I know you must be quite busy with school…”

 _And the Death Eaters,_ he finished for her silently, _With Bella._ In truth, it felt strange to spend so many more hours with his eldest cousin - but however inconsequential the subject, he felt calmed by the familiarity of the youngest. “I am always happy to make the time.”

Narcissa smiled warmly, and in place of the searing heat of the past week, Regulus felt the rise of a more comforting warmth in himself, as well. “I know you are...under a great deal of pressure,” she continued more carefully, meeting his eyes again with a now bracing smile, “But you are doing wonderfully. We are all very proud of how seriously you take - everything, in truth. Bella might be angling for ‘most proud,’ but she has not surpassed me yet.”

With a twist in his chest, Regulus thought that it was truthfully difficult to tell how Bella actually felt about him, sometimes, caught between swings of impatience and delight, but he did not say as much. Instead, he returned the smile, resisting the urge to rub self-conscious fingers over the inky mark on his forearm.

“There is nothing more important to me than our family,” he said, his voice tight with piercing sincerity. “I intend to do all I can to preserve that.”

Though Narcissa’s smile was gentle, there was steel in her eyes as she tipped her head in a subtle nod.

On the table, his tea had chilled some time before, untouched since Dobby had set it out upon his arrival. A gentle tap of the wand heated it once again, and from the pale brown liquid rose a writhing haze of steam, clear and warm as he lifted it from its tiny saucer. Since the fire, blackened smoke billowed eerily at the back of his mind, but as he breathed in the warmth, he tried to breathe out the memories, imagining it was that same billowing smoke he was blowing away, rather than the steam of some innocuous cup of tea.

When he looked to the window again, he saw the bird had long-since left the bushes, taking to sky or sea as he saw fit. Someday, they would be free, too - free of the war, free of the constant tensions yanking in every direction.

Together, they would make it just a little bit longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Things We Lost in the Fire" by Janet Devlin.
> 
> For those who are interested in our nerdy headcanon about the specifics of the Trace (as interpreted by us/in the Renascentia-verse), I tossed up a [brief meta](http://preciousreyofsunshine.tumblr.com/post/170961915137/meta-the-trace-in-the-harry-potter-series) on my tumblr, but the important bits are referenced in the narrative, so as always, it's not essential.


End file.
